Книга - Rider on Fire

Rider on Fire
Sharon Sala











Praise for

New York Times

bestselling author

SHARON SALA


“Sharon Sala is not only a top romance novelist, she is an inspiration for people everywhere who wish to live their dreams. Her work has a higher purpose and she takes readers with her on an incredible journey of overcoming adversity and increased self-awareness in every book.”

—John St. Augustine, Host, Power! Talk Radio WDBC-AM, Michigan

“…[She] knows just how to steep the fires of romance to the gratification of her readers.”

—Romantic Times

Sharon Sala has a “rare ability to bring powerful and emotionally wrenching stories to life.”

—Romantic Times


Dear Reader,

October is a funny month in New York City. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it snows, sometimes it’s sunny. And in the stores, there’s the anticipation of Halloween with candy and costumes. Although children don’t usually trick-or-treat in my building, I still buy candy and wear a witch’s hat just in case. Maybe this year, a group of goblins and vampires will show up so that I won’t have to eat a whole bag of chocolate myself. Speaking of vampires, October is a banner month for our readers. We’ve got enough paranormal and adventure so that you’ll want to keep a light on at all times.

New York Times bestselling author Sharon Sala returns to the line with Rider on Fire (#1387), which features a biker chick heroine who is led on a mystical journey to her long-lost father. Of course, she finds true love on her quest…and danger. RITA® Award-winning author Catherine Mann continues her popular WINGMEN WARRIORS miniseries with The Captive’s Return (#1388), where an airman finds his long-lost wife. As they race to escape a crime lord, will they reclaim their passion for each other?

You’ll love Ingrid Weaver’s Romancing the Renegade (#1389), the next book in her PAYBACK miniseries. Here, a sweet bookworm is swept off her feet by a dashing FBI agent, who enlists her aid in the recovery of lost treasure. Make sure to wear your garlic necklace with Caridad Piñeiro’s Temptation Calls (#1390), in which a beautiful vampire falls for a mortal man. And while she’s only known men as abusive, will this dashing detective tempt her out of the darkness? This story is part of Caridad’s miniseries THE CALLING.

Have a joyous October and be sure to return next month to Silhouette Intimate Moments, where your thirst for suspense and romance is sure to be satisfied. Happy reading!

Sincerely,

Patience Smith

Associate Senior Editor




Rider on Fire

Sharon Sala














ISBN: 9781408947104

Rider on Fire

© Sharon Sala 2005

First Published in Great Britain in 2005

Harlequin (UK) Limited

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the prior consent of the publisher, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.á.r.l.

® and TM are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




SHARON SALA







is a child of the country. As a farmer’s daughter, she found her vivid imagination made solitude a thing to cherish. During her adult life, she learned to survive by taking things one day at a time. An inveterate dreamer, she yearned to share the stories her imagination created. For Sharon, her dreams have come true, and she claims one of her greatest joys is when her stories become tools for healing.

In addition to her titles for Silhouette, she now writes mainstream novels for MIRA Books under her own name and also as Dinah McCall.


This past month, another member of the Oklahoma Outlaws, our state chapter of Romance Writers of America, was diagnosed with breast cancer. We have less than forty members in the chapter and a half dozen of those are breast cancer survivors. Devastating illnesses are never fair. They didn’t get to pick and choose the trials and tribulations that came with living their lives, but by golly those girls know how to live it regardless.

Because I am so proud to be an Outlaw, and because I love and admire those women so much for showing us what’s really important in life, I would like to dedicate this book to them.

Ladies, this is my “pink ribbon” for all of you.

To Peggy King, Jo Smith, Willie Ferguson, Julia Mozingo, Chris Rimmer and Donnell Epperson, and to all the women everywhere, including my editor, Leslie Wainger, who have been forged in the fire of cancer and lived to be inspirations for us all—

PINK FOREVER!!!




Contents


About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

COMING NEXT MONTH




Chapter 1


The small squirrel was just ready to scold—its little mouth partially opened as it clutched the acorn close to its chest. In the right light, one could almost believe the tail had just twitched.

Franklin Blue Cat called it The Sassy One. It was one of his latest carvings and in three months would be featured, along with thirty other pieces of his work, in a prestigious art gallery in Santa Fe. He hoped he lived long enough to see it.

Franklin often thought how strange the turns his life had taken. Had anyone told him that one day he would become known the world over for his simple carvings, he would have called them crazy. He would also have called them crazy for telling him that, at the age of sixty, he would be alone and dying of cancer. He’d always imagined himself going into old age surrounded by children and grandchildren with a loving wife at his side.

He set aside the squirrel. As he did, the pain he’d been living with for some months took a sharp upward spike, making Franklin reel where he stood. He waited until the worst of it passed, then stumbled to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed.

He considered giving Adam Two Eagles a call. Adam’s father had been the clan healer. Everyone had assumed that Adam would follow in his father’s footsteps. Only Adam had rebelled. Instead, he had taken the white man’s way and left the Kiamichi Mountains to go to college, graduated from Oklahoma State University with an MBA, and from there, gone straight into the army to eventually become one of their elite—an Army Ranger.

Then, during the ensuing years, something had happened to Adam that caused him to quit the military, and brought him home. He’d come back to eastern Oklahoma, to his Kiowa roots, and stepped into his father’s footsteps as if he’d never been away.

Adam never talked about what had changed him, but Franklin knew it had been bad. He saw the shadows in Adam’s eyes when he thought no one was looking. However, Franklin knew something that Adam did not. Franklin knew it would pass. He’d lived long enough to know life was in a constant state of flux.

As Franklin drifted to sleep, he dreamed, all the way back to his younger days and the woman who’d stolen his heart.



Leila of the laughing eyes and long dark hair. He couldn’t remember when he hadn’t loved her. They’d made love every chance they could get—with passion, but without caution.

Sleep took him to the day he had learned that Leila’s family was moving. She’d been twenty-two to his thirty—old enough to stay behind. He’d begged her to stay but there had been a look on her face he’d never seen before, and instead of accepting his offer of marriage, she’d been unable to meet his gaze.

His heartbeat accelerated as he relived the panic. In his mind, he could see her face through the back window of the car as her father drove away.

She was crying—his Leila of the laughing eyes was sobbing as she waved goodbye. He could see her mouth moving.



Franklin shifted on the bed. This was new. He didn’t remember her calling out. In real life, she’d done nothing but cry as they drove away. It was the way he’d remembered it for all these years. So why had the dream been different? What was it she was trying to say?

He swung his legs to the side of the bed and then stood, giving himself time to decide if he had the strength to move. Finally, he walked out of his bedroom, then through the kitchen to the back porch. The night air was sultry and still.

He stood for a few moments, absorbing the impact of the dream, waiting for understanding. At first, he felt nothing. His mind was blank, but he knew what to do. It was the same thing he always did as he began a new piece of work. All he had to do was look at the block of wood until he saw whatever it was that was waiting to come out. Only then did he begin carving.

Following his instincts, he closed his eyes, took a slow breath, then waited for the words Leila had been trying to say.

It was quiet on the mountain. Almost too quiet. Even the night birds were silent and the coyotes seemed to have gone to ground. There was nothing to distract Franklin from watching his dream, letting it replay in his head. He stood motionless for so long that dew settled on his bare feet, while an owl, feeling no threat, passed silently behind him on its way out to hunt.

And then understanding came, and with it, shock. Franklin turned abruptly and looked back at his house, almost expecting Leila to be on the porch, but there was no one there.

He turned again, this time looking to the trees beyond his home. He’d been born on this land. His parents had died in this house, and soon, so would he. But there was something he knew now that he had not known yesterday.

Leila had taken something of his when she’d left him.

His child.

Right in the middle of his revelation, exhaustion hit.

Damn this cancer.

His legs began to shake and his hands began to tremble. He walked back to the house, stumbling slightly as he stepped up on the porch, then dragged himself into the house.

What if he could find his Leila—even if she was no longer his? He wanted to see their child—no—he needed to know that a part of him would live on, even after he was gone. Tomorrow, he would call Adam Two Eagles. Adam would know what to do.



Adam Two Eagles rarely had to stretch to reach anything. At three inches over six feet tall, he usually towered over others. His features were Native American, but less defined than his father’s had been. His mother had been Navajo and the mix of Kiowa and Navajo had blended well, making Adam a very handsome man. His dark hair was thick and long, falling far below his shoulders—a far cry from the buzz cut he’d worn in the military. But that seemed so long ago that it might as well have been from another life.

This morning, he was readying himself for a trip up the Kiamichis. There were some plants he wanted for healing that grew only in the higher elevation. It would mean at least a half-day’s hike up and back—nothing he hadn’t done countless times before—only today, he felt unsettled. He kept going from room to room, thinking there was something else he was supposed to do, but nothing occurred to him. Finally, he’d given up and prepared to leave.

If he hadn’t forgotten the bag he liked to carry his herbs and plants in, he would have already been gone when the phone rang. But he was digging through a closet, and ignoring the ring would have been like a doctor ignoring a call for help.

“Hello.”

“Adam! I was beginning to think you were gone.”

Adam smiled as he recognized the voice.

“Good morning, Franklin. You just caught me. How have you been?”

“The same,” Franklin said shortly, unwilling to dwell on his illness. “But that’s not why I called.”

Adam frowned. The seriousness in his old friend’s voice was unfamiliar.

“So, what’s up?” Adam asked.

“It’s complicated,” Franklin said. “Can you come over?”

“Yes, of course. When do you need me?” Adam asked.

There was a moment of hesitation, then Franklin sighed. “Now, I need you to come now.”

“I’m on my way,” Adam said, and hung up.

In less than fifteen minutes, Adam was pulling up to Franklin’s house. He parked, then killed the engine. When he looked up, Franklin had come outside and was waiting for him on the porch. He smiled and then waved Adam up before moving back into the house. Adam bolted up the steps and followed him.

A few minutes were wasted on small talk and the pouring of coffee before Adam urged Franklin to sit down. Franklin did so without arguing. Adam took a seat opposite Franklin’s chair and leaned back, waiting for the older man to begin.

“I had a dream,” Franklin said.

Adam set his coffee aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair.

“Tell me.”

Franklin relayed what he’d dreamed, and what he believed that it meant. When he was finished, he leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest.

“So, can you help me?” he asked.

“What do you want me to do?” Adam countered.

Franklin sighed. “I guess, I want to know if I’m right, if Leila and I had a child. I want to know this before I die.”

Adam stood, then paced to the window, absently staring at the way sunlight reflected from his windshield onto a wind chime hanging from the porch. He knew what Franklin was asking. He just wasn’t convinced Franklin would get the answer he desired.

“So, will you make medicine for me?” Franklin asked.

Adam turned abruptly and asked, “Will you accept what comes, even if it’s not what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

Adam nodded shortly. “Then, yes, I’ll help you.”

Franklin sighed, then swiped a shaky hand across his face.

“What do you need from me?” he asked.

“Something that is remarkably yours alone.”

Franklin hesitated a moment, then left the room. He returned shortly carrying a carving of an owl in flight.

“This was my first owl. Would this do?”

“Are you willing to sacrifice it?”

Franklin rubbed a hand over the owl one last time, as if imprinting the perfection of the shape and the feathers in his mind, then handed it over.

Adam took it. The wood felt warm where Franklin had been holding it, adding yet another layer of reality to the piece. Then he took out his knife.

“Are you still on blood thinner?” Adam asked.

Franklin nodded.

“Then hair will have to do.”

Franklin sat down. Adam deftly separated a couple of strands of Franklin’s hair from his head and cut them off, wrapped them in his handkerchief and put them in his pocket.

“Is that all you need?” Franklin asked.

Adam nodded. “I will make medicine for you.”

Franklin’s shoulders slumped with relief. “When will we know if it worked?”

“When someone comes.”

“When? Not if, but when? How can you be so sure?”

“I know what I know,” Adam said, and it was all he would say.

For Franklin, it wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. “Then I will wait,” he said.

Adam nodded, then picked up his coffee cup and leaned back in his chair and took a sip.

Franklin picked up his cup as well, but he didn’t drink. He tightened his fingers around the mug, letting the warmth of the crockery settle within him as he watched his old friend’s son.

Adam was looking out the window, his eyes narrowing sharply as he squinted against the light. Franklin thought that Adam looked a lot like his father. Same strong face—same far-seeing expression in his eyes, but he was taller and more muscular. And he’d been beyond the Kiamichis. He’d lived a warrior’s life for the United States government.

Franklin set his coffee cup aside, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes.

It was good that Adam Two Eagles had come home.



Within an hour after arriving back at his home, Adam began the preparations. He drank some water before going out to ready the sweat lodge. On the way down the hillside, he got work gloves from the tool shed and a small hatchet from a shelf.

A sense of peace came over him as he worked, gathering wood and patching a small hole in the lodge. Tonight, he would begin the ceremony. If Franklin and Leila had made a baby together, the Old Ones would find it.

He hurried back to the house, gathering everything he needed, then walked back to the small lodge above the creek bank.

He undressed with care, shedding his clothes a layer at a time. By the time he’d dropped his last garment, a slight breeze had come up, lifting his hair away from his face and cooling the sweat beading on his body. The first star of the evening was just visible when he looked up at the sky. He checked the fire. Ideally, there would be someone outside the lodge continuing to feed the fire, but not tonight. Tonight the fire that he’d already built would serve the purpose.

He lifted the flap and crawled in. Within seconds, he was covered in sweat. He sat down cross-legged, letting his arms and hands rest on his knees. With a slow, even rhythm he breathed in and breathed out. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant. The words were almost as old as the land on which he sat.

The hours passed and the moon that had been hanging high in the sky, was more than halfway through its slow descent to the horizon. Morning was but an hour or so away.

Inside the sweat lodge, all the words had been said. All the prayers had been prayed.

Adam was ready.

He crawled out of the lodge. When he stood, the muscles in his legs tried to cramp, but he walked them out as he then moved behind the lodge and laid another stick of wood on the fire.

With the sweat drying swiftly on his skin and his mind and body free from impurities, he reached into his pack and took out the carving, as well as the hairs he’d cut from Franklin’s head.

Some might have called it a prayer—others might have said it was a chant—but the words Adam spoke were a call to the Old Ones. The rhythm of the syllables rolled off Adam’s tongue like a song. The log he’d laid on the fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up into the air. Adam felt the prick of heat from one as it landed on his skin, but he didn’t flinch.

Still wrapped in the cloak of darkness, he lifted his arms to the heavens and began to dance. Dust and ashes rose up from the ground, coating his feet and legs as he moved in and out of the shadows around the fire. He danced and he sang until his heartbeat matched the rhythm of his feet.

The wind rose, whistling through the trees in a thin, constant wail, sucking the hair from the back of his neck and then swirling it about his face.

They were coming.

He tossed the owl and the hairs into the fire, and then lifted his hands above his head. As he did, there was what he could only describe as an absence of air. He could still breathe, but he was unable to move.

The great warriors manifested themselves within the smoke, using it to coat the shapes of what they’d once been. They came mounted on spirit horses with eyes of fire. The horses stomped and reared, inhaling showers of sparks that had been following the column of smoke, and exhaling what appeared to be stars.

One warrior wore a war bonnet so long that it dragged beneath the ghost horse’s feet. Another was wrapped in the skin of a bear, with the mark of the claw painted on his chest. The third horse had a black handprint on its flank, while matching handprints of white were on the old warrior’s cheeks. The last one rode naked on a horse of pure white. The wrinkles in his face were as many as the rivers of the earth. His gray hair so long that it appeared tangled in the horse’s mane and tail, making it difficult to tell where man ended and horse began.

They spoke in unison, with the sounds getting lost in the whirlwind that brought them, and yet Adam knew what they’d said.

They would help.

As he watched, one by one, they reached into the fire and took a piece of Franklin’s essence to help them with their search. Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, they were gone.

Adam dropped to his knees, then passed out.




Chapter 2


DEA agent Sonora Jordan was running after a drug dealer when she fell into the twilight zone. One moment she was inches away from grabbing her perp, Enrique Garcia, and the next her gun went flying as she fell flat on her face. The shot that would have hit her square in the back went flying over her head. Instead of the heat and dust of Mexico, she was in the shade of a forest and hearing the sound of moving water from somewhere up ahead.



She lifted her head, and as she did, she saw a tall, older man standing on the porch of a single-story dwelling that was surrounded by trees. His skin was brown, and his hair was long and peppered with gray. There was a wind chime hanging by his head that looked like a Native American dream catcher. The chimes were different shapes of feathers. It was so foreign to anything she knew, she couldn’t imagine why she would be hallucinating about it and wondered if she was dead.

The man lifted his hand, and as he did, she had the strongest urge to wave back, but she couldn’t seem to move. She couldn’t see his face clearly, yet she knew that he was crying. A sad, empty feeling hit her belly and then swallowed her whole.

By the time she realized she wasn’t dead, only face down in the dirt, the vision was gone. If that wasn’t enough humiliation, her perp was nowhere in sight.

“Oh crap,” she muttered, then breathed easier when she saw Agent Dave Wills coming back with the perp she’d been chasing. Garcia was handcuffed and cursing at the top of his voice.

“Can it, Garcia,” Wills snapped, then saw Sonora on the ground. “Jordan! Are you all right? Are you hit?”

“No…no, I’m okay,” Sonora said, as she got up, picked up her gun, then began brushing at the dust on her face and clothes.

“What happened?” he asked, as he shoved Garcia into the back of his car and slammed the door.

She didn’t know what to say. “I guess I tripped.” It was lame, but it was better than the truth.

He frowned. Sonora Jordan wasn’t the tripping kind. He reached for her shoulder, intent on brushing a streak of dirt from her face when movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned just as the other Garcia brother appeared.

“Look out!” he yelled, shoving Sonora aside as he reached for his gun.

Sonora reacted without thinking. Her gun was still in her hand and she was falling again. Only this time, she got off four shots. Two of them connected.

Juanito Garcia died before he hit the ground.

Enrique saw the whole thing from Wills’s car, and began to scream, cursing Sonora and Wills and the DEA in general.

Wills waved his arm at another agent and yelled, “Get him out of here!”

As he was being driven away, Enrique looked back at Sonora, mouthing the words, “You’re dead.”

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, but it never failed to give her the creeps.

Wills eyed the muscle jerking in her jaw but shrugged it off. She was tough, no need getting bent out of shape on her behalf. Still, this bust hadn’t gone as they’d planned.

“They made you too early,” he said. “What happened?”

She spun, eyeing him angrily. “Oh hell, Wills, I hate to venture a guess, but it might have been your ugly mug showing up a good ten minutes too soon. I wasn’t through making my play when you came flying around the corner.”

Wills shrugged. “But we got ’em.”

“No, we got two. Miguel Garcia is the boss man and he wasn’t here…yet.”

This time Wills frowned. “So, it’s not my fault he didn’t show. You said he would.”

“Yeah…at three-fifteen.”

“So, what time is it now?” Wills asked.

“Three-fifteen,” Sonora snapped, then strode to her car and got in, slamming the door behind her. When Wills still hadn’t moved, she leaned out the window and yelled. “You plan on buying a house down here?”

Wills glanced down at what was left of Juanito Garcia and then at the faces peering out at them from windows above the street.

“Hell no,” he said.

Within minutes, they were gone, leaving the aftermath and cleanup to others. There was a border to cross and reports to be written before anyone slept tonight.



Sonora typed the last word in her report and then hit print. She gathered up the pages with one eye on the clock and the other on the scowl her boss was wearing.

Gerald Mynton wasn’t any happier than she’d been about letting Miguel Garcia get away. Capturing two out of three wasn’t the kind of odds Mynton operated on. He was an all or nothing kind of man. Added to that, Sonora Jordan was no longer a viable agent in this case. He knew Wills was partly responsible for missing the last Garcia brother, but there was nothing they could do about it now except pick up where they left off—minus Jordan.

When he saw Sonora get up from her desk, he motioned for her to come in. She gathered up what was obviously her report, and strode across the floor.

Even though he was a happily married man and totally insulted by the thought of sexual harassment among his agents, he couldn’t ignore what a beautiful woman Sonora was. She was over five-feet-nine inches tall and could bench press double her weight. Her hair was long and dark and her features exotically beautiful. In all the years he’d known her, he’d only seen her smile a few times.

But it wasn’t her looks that made her a valuable agent. Besides her skill, there was an asset Sonora had that made her a perfect agent. She had no relatives and no boyfriends. She was as alone in this world as a person could be, which meant that her loyalties were one hundred percent with the job.

Unfortunately, killing Juanito Garcia had temporarily put an end to her usefulness, and until Miguel Garcia was brought to justice, she needed to lay low. Miguel was the kind of man who dealt in revenge.

Gerald Mynton hated to be in corners, but he was in one now. If he put Sonora back to work on anything new, Garcia could dog her until he got a chance to kill her. Mynton’s only option was for her to drop out of sight until Garcia was brought in and she could live to solve another case.

He squinted thoughtfully as Sonora entered his office. Now he had to convince her that it was in her best interest to hide, when he knew her instincts would be to confront and overcome.

“My report,” Sonora said, as she laid the file on his desk.

He nodded. “Close the door, then please sit down.”

Sonora stood her ground with the door wide open. “I’m not hiding.”

Mynton sighed. “Did I say you should?”

“Not yet, but you’re going to, aren’t you?”

“There’s a contract out on your life.”

Sonora’s chin jutted. “I heard.”

“So…do you have a death wish?”

“No, but—”

“Garcia won’t take what happened without payback. No matter what case I put you on, your presence could put everyone else in danger, not to mention yourself.”

Sonora’s shoulders slumped. “I hate this.”

“I’m not all that excited about it myself,” Mynton said.

Sonora nodded. She wasn’t the kind of person who let herself be down for long. If this was the way it was going to play out, then so be it.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do as you ask,” she said.

Mynton stood up and then walked around his desk until they were standing face to face.

“You don’t apologize,” he said shortly. “You don’t ever apologize for doing your job and doing it well. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there anyplace special you can go?”

She thought of the hallucination she’d had in Mexico—of the house surrounded by a forest of green and the wind chime hanging on the porch. It had seemed so perfect. If only it had been real, she’d already be there.

“Not really. I’ll think of something, though.”

“Find a different mode of transportation. We don’t think Garcia is in Phoenix yet, but once here, it won’t take him long to find out where you live. I don’t want you to be there when he arrives. As for leaving Phoenix, you can be traced too easily by credit card. Also, I’d skip the airports and bus stations.”

“Well, damn it, sir, since my broom is also in the shop, what the hell else do you suggest?”

Mynton’s frown deepened. “Use your imagination.”

“This is a nightmare,” Sonora muttered. “Just do me one favor.”

“If I can,” Mynton said.

“Find Miguel Garcia,” she added.

“And you stay safe and keep in touch,” he added.

A few minutes later, she was gone.

By the time she got home, she was exhausted. However, there were plans to be made. Mynton wanted her to get lost. He didn’t know it, but she’d been lost all her life. Dumped on the doorstep of a Texas orphanage when she was only hours old, Sonora had grown up without a sense of who she was or where she was from. When she was young, she used to pretend that her mother would suddenly appear and whisk her away, but it had never happened. Life, for Sonora, was nothing but one kick in the teeth after another. She didn’t believe in luck, had never believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, and trusted no one. What had happened on their last case had been unexpected, but she could handle it. All she needed to do was get out of town.

Transportation was no problem. She knew exactly how she would travel. All she needed to do was call her old boyfriend, Buddy Allen, and have him bring back her Harley.

She stripped down to a bra and panties before she sat down on the side of the bed. She rubbed the back of her neck with both hands, wishing she had time for a massage, but that was too public for someone who needed to lay low.

She picked up the phone and dialed Buddy’s number. Although it had been more than six months since they’d quit seeing each other, they were still on good terms. Sonora had been gone too much to commit herself to anyone, and Buddy wanted more than a once a month lay. The decision to quit trying had been mutual.

Still, as she waited for Buddy to pick up, she couldn’t help but wish she had a little back-up in her personal life.

Buddy answered on the third ring. “Heelloo, good lookin’.”

“Did you know it was me, or is that the way you always answer your phone?” Sonora said.

Buddy laughed. “Caller ID and yes.”

This time, it was Sonora who chuckled. “Some things never change…you being one of them,” she said.

Buddy sighed. “Did you call to chastize me for being male, or can I talk you into a round of good sex for old times sake?”

“No on both counts. I called because I need my bike.”

Buddy groaned. “Aw, man…not the Harley.”

“Sorry, but I need it,” Sonora said shortly.

The smile disappeared from Buddy’s voice. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not if I get out of town quick enough.”

“Damn it, Sonora, why do you do it?”

“Do what?” she asked.

“You know what. There are a hundred careers you could have picked besides the one that you chose and none of them would have been dangerous.”

“Can you bring it over?” she asked. “I’d come get it, but I don’t want to advertise my presence any more than necessary.”

Buddy sighed. “Hell yes, I’ll bring the Harley, serviced, gassed up and clean. When do you need it?” he asked.

“Yesterday.”

Buddy cursed and asked, “Do you need to leave before morning?”

“No. It can wait until then, but early…please.”

“Thanks for nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll be there before seven a.m. Will you make me some coffee?”

“Yes.”

“And maybe some of your biscuits and gravy?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I’m not blaming you for anything,” she said. “Never have. Never will.”

“I know,” Buddy said, and knew that she was no longer talking about the bike. “See you in the morning.”

“Okay, Buddy, and thanks.”

“It’s okay, honey,” Buddy said, and hung up.

With that job over, Sonora walked to the closet, then grabbed her travel bag and quickly packed. She thought about where she might go and then went into the living room, found an atlas and carried it to the kitchen.

She opened the pages to the map of the U.S. and then just sat and stared. One line seemed to stand out from all the others. She fumbled in a drawer for a yellow highlighter, then popped the cap. Her fingers were shaking as she held it over the map. Something rattled behind her, like pebbles in a can. She ignored it and began to mark.

Without a thought in her head, she began drawing a line north out of Phoenix toward Flagstaff, then across the country until she came to Oklahoma. The line ended there.

She paused, frowned, then shook her head, certain she’d just lost her mind. Still, she left the atlas on the counter as she went into her bedroom.

She showered quickly, afraid that the vision would come back. Even after she crawled into bed and closed her eyes, she was reluctant to sleep. Finally, she rolled onto her side, bunched her pillow under her neck, then grabbed the extra one and hugged it to her. It was an old habit from childhood, and one she rarely indulged in anymore. The simple act made her feel childish and helpless and Sonora was neither of those.

Somehow she slept, and woke up just after six. Time enough for a quick shower.

True to his promise, Buddy showed up right before seven.

She met him at the door with a to-go cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” she said, eyeing his tousled hair and unshaven face. “Thanks for bringing the Harley.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, dropped the keys in her hands, handed her the helmet, and took the coffee, downing a good portion of it before he spoke again. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what’s going on?”

She shrugged. “Someone wants me dead.”

“Sonofabitch,” Buddy muttered.

“Yes, he is,” Sonora said. “A real bad one. I don’t think anyone knows about you and me, but just to be on the safe side, don’t mention my name to anyone.”

“There is no more you and me,” Buddy reminded her. “And don’t worry about me. I’m not the one with the death wish.”

Sonora frowned. “I don’t have a death wish. I just do my job and do it well.” Then she kissed him on the cheek, as much as a thank-you as for old times sake, as well as for bringing back her bike, then pointed at the cab in the street. “I suppose that’s your ride. Don’t keep him waiting.”

She watched him get into the cab before checking the area for someone who didn’t belong. All was well. When he looked back, she waved goodbye, then quickly closed the door.

She walked through her home one last time, making sure everything was as it should be, then shouldered her bag, picked up the helmet, and turned off the lights. She opened the door, hesitating briefly to scan the neighborhood once more, and saw nothing amiss. The black and shiny Harley was at the curb.

She hurried outside, opened the storage compartment and dropped her handgun inside, then lowered the lid and tied her bag down on top. When she stuck the key in the ignition, she could tell Buddy had been good for his word. Not only was the bike clean, but the gas gauge registered full. She checked to make sure her toolbox was in place, then put on the helmet and slung her leg over the bike as if she was mounting a horse.

The engine roared to life, then settled down to a soft rumble as she released the kickstand and gave it the gas. As the rumble changed to a full-throttle blast, she put it in gear and rode away without looking back.

It wasn’t until she was on the highway that she remembered the path she’d highlighted on the atlas. There was no reason for her to have chosen that direction, and a couple of times she even considered turning around and heading for Las Vegas or points farther west. But something more than instinct was guiding her trip.




Chapter 3


Miguel Garcia was in Juarez, trying to figure out how to get over the border. The Mexican police had staked out his hotel and would have already had him in custody if it hadn’t been for Jorge Diaz, one of his dealers, who’d sent his own child into the restaurant where Miguel was having breakfast to warn him.

Now he was in a dingy room over what must be the oldest cantina in the city, without his clothes, and without access to his bank. Even though he hadn’t been born to it, Miguel had been in the drug business long enough that he’d become accustomed to fine dining, elegant surroundings. Being forced to hide in a room like this was like a slap in the face—a degradation that only added to the grief of losing his brothers.

Enrique was incarcerated somewhere in the States, and Juanito was on a slab in a Tijuana morgue. He’d promised his mother on her deathbed that he would take care of Juanito. He was the baby of their family, the last of eight children, but now, because of that DEA bitch, Juanito was dead.

Before he’d gone into hiding, Miguel had made a promise at his mother’s grave that he would avenge Juanito’s death. He’d also let it be known that he would pay big money for the name and location of the agent who’d killed his brother, with the warning to leave her alone. He wanted to end her life—personally.

And so he waited. And waited. A day passed in this hell, then a second, then a third before everything changed.



The puta Miguel had just paid for a blow job was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when someone knocked on his door. He reached for his gun, grabbed the woman who was just coming out of the bathroom, and put his finger to his mouth to indicate she be quiet. His grip on her arm was so painful that she stifled a screech and covered her mouth with both hands. Tears ran down her face, but she didn’t move.

Once he was satisfied that she understood what he meant, he whispered in her ear. “Ask who is there.”

She nodded, then called out as he told her.

There was a long stretch of silence, then a man spoke, “I have news for Miguel.”

Miguel recognized the voice of Jorge, the dealer who’d helped him escape. He pulled the woman away from the door, opened it enough to make sure Jorge was alone, and then shoved her out.

“Get lost,” he said.

She scurried away, glad to be leaving in one piece.

“Come in,” Miguel said.

Jorge nodded quickly, looked over his shoulder, then stepped inside. He didn’t waste time or words. “You wanted the name of the agent who killed your brother.”

Miguel’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes.”

“Her name is Sonora Jordan. She lives in Phoenix, Arizona.”

Miguel stifled the urge to clap his hands. This was the best news he’d had in days. “You are sure.”

“Sí, Patron.”

Miguel put a hand on Jorge’s shoulder to explain why he couldn’t pay him yet. “They are watching my home and my bank.”

Jorge nodded again. No further explanation was needed. “I know,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a roll of hundred dollar bills which he handed to Miguel. “For you, Patron, and if you’re ready, I can get you across the border tonight.”

Miguel was not only surprised, he was shocked. He had greatly underestimated this man’s loyalty. “When this is over, you will be greatly rewarded.”

Jorge shrugged. “I expect nothing, Patron. It is my honor to help. At eleven o’clock, there will be one knock on your door. The man who comes will take you to a hacienda outside of Juarez where a private plane will be waiting. The pilot has already gotten clearance for his trip, but it does not include landing in Juarez, so the timing will be crucial. You must not be late because he will not wait. Once across the border, he will touch down briefly at a small airstrip outside of Houston. More money and a car will be waiting for you there. The man who brought it has been instructed to stay until he sees that you’re safely on the ground.”

Miguel threw his arms around Jorge. “Gracias, Jorge…gracias. I will never forget this.”

Jorge nodded and smiled. “Vaya con Dios, Patron.” And then he was gone.

Miguel glanced at his watch. It was just after nine. Within two hours, he would be gone from this place and on his way to fulfilling the promise he’d made at his mother’s grave.

As soon as Jorge reached the street, he took out his cell phone and made a call. “Tony, this is Jorge Diaz. I need you to do something for me.”

Tony Freely was one of Jorge’s mules. He traveled back and forth regularly from his ranch outside of Houston to Juarez, doing his part to make sure that the drug market continued to thrive, and being nicely reimbursed for his troubles.

“Yeah, sure, Jorge. Just name it.”

“You remember the old runway where I had you pick up a load about three months back?”

“Yeah, but I thought you didn’t want to use it anymore.”

“I don’t. It’s something else,” Jorge said. “What I want you to do is go to that runway at an hour before midnight tonight and wait for a small plane to land there. A man will get off. You let him see you. Let him see your face, but don’t talk to him. Just get in your car and drive away.”

Tony frowned. This didn’t sound right, but he knew better than to question Jorge.

“Sure. No problem.”

“Thank you,” Jorge said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Tony’s frown disappeared. Money talked loud and clear to him. “Consider it done,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Jorge did the same, smiling as he disconnected. Before he was through, the Garcia brothers’ reign of power would be over and he would be the one in charge.



As promised, Miguel’s ride appeared on time. He didn’t recognize the short, fat man who came to get him, and the man didn’t offer a name. They got to the airstrip without incident. Soon, the lights of Juarez were swiftly disappearing below them. Miguel was already making plans as to how to find Sonora Jordan and make her pay for the death of his brother.

In about an hour, the plane began to lose altitude and Miguel’s heartbeat accelerated. He leaned over and peered out the window to the sea of lights that was Houston.

The pilot banked suddenly to the west and began descending. Minutes later, the small plane landed, taking a couple of hard bounces before rolling to an easy stop.

Miguel saw a small hangar and a man standing beneath a single light mounted above the door. In the shadows nearby, he could see the outline of a car.

He owed Jorge big time.

“You get out now,” the pilot said shortly.

Miguel frowned. It was the most the man had said to him since they took off. Still, he grabbed his bag and jumped out of the plane. Even as he was walking away, the plane turned around and took off the same way it had landed.

Caught in the back-draft, Miguel ducked his head and closed his eyes while dust and grit swirled around him. When he opened his eyes, the plane was off the ground and the man he’d seen under the lights was gone.

The unexpected solitude and quiet made him a little uneasy, and when a chorus of coyotes suddenly tuned up from somewhere beyond the hangar, he headed for the car on the run.

Only after he was inside with the doors locked and his hand on the keys dangling from the ignition, did he relax. He started the engine and checked the gauges. The car was full of gas, two maps were on the seat beside him—one of Texas and one of Arizona. After a quick check of the briefcase in the passenger seat, he knew he would have plenty of money to do what had to be done. He backed away from the hangar and followed the dirt road until he hit blacktop. Gauging his directions by the digital compass on the rearview mirror, he turned north and drove until daylight. The first town he came to, he stopped and ate breakfast, then got a room at the local motel. It was ten minutes after nine in the morning when he crawled between the sheets. Within seconds, he was out.



Even though Sonora had started out with an indefinite direction in mind, the farther she went, the more certain she became that, whatever her future held, she would find it somewhere east.

Near the Arizona border, it started to rain. Sonora stopped and took a room at a chain motel. She tossed her bag onto the bed before heading to the restaurant on site.

Once she finished her meal she started back to her room on the second floor. She was halfway up the stairs when she pulled an Alice and, once again, fell down the rabbit hole.



It was raining. The kind of rain that some people called a toad-strangler—a hard, pounding downpour with little to no wind. She’d never stood in the rain and not been wet before. It was an eerie sensation. And it was night again. Why did insanity keep yanking her around in the dark? It was bad enough she was hallucinating.

She didn’t have to look twice to know that she was back at the Native American man’s house. Water was running off the roof and down between her feet, following the slope of the ground. All of a sudden, lightning struck with a loud, frightening crack. She flinched, then relaxed. There was no need to panic. She wasn’t really here. This was just a dream.

She looked toward the house, then felt herself moving closer, although she knew for a fact that her feet never shifted. Now she was standing beneath the porch and looking into the window. At first, she saw nothing. Then she saw the Native American man lying on the floor near a doorway.

She gasped and started toward the door when she realized that, again, she had no power here. She was nothing but a witness. Dread hit her belly high. Why was she seeing this if she could do nothing about it?

Then, as she was watching through the window, she realized there was a light in the window that hadn’t been there before. It took a few moments before she could tell it was a reflection from a vehicle coming down the driveway behind her.

She turned, wanting to call out—willing herself to scream out, please hurry, but as before, she was nothing but an observer.



Adam Two Eagles drove recklessly through the storm. The phone call he’d gotten a short time ago from Franklin had frightened him. Even now as he was turning up Franklin’s driveway, the knot in his gut tightened.

Franklin had sounded confused—even fatalistic. Adam didn’t think Franklin would do anything crazy, like do himself in, but he couldn’t be sure. And when he’d tried to call him back, there had been no answer.

He could have called an ambulance. The people in Broken Bow knew Franklin. They knew he had leukemia. They would send an ambulance, but if it was unwarranted—if Adam had misread the situation—it would embarrass Franklin, and that he didn’t want to do. So here he was, driving like a madman in the dark, pouring rain, just to make sure his friend was still of this earth.

As he came around the curve, he saw that the lights were still on in Franklin’s house. That was good. At least he wouldn’t be waking him up to make sure he was okay.

Lightning struck a tree about a hundred yards in front of him. Even in the rain, sparks flew. Right before the flash disappeared, Adam saw branches exploding, then flying through the air. He swerved as one flew past the hood of his truck, then sped past the site just before the tree burst into flames. It wouldn’t burn long in this downpour, but the sooner Adam got out of this rain, the better off he would feel.

He slid to a halt near the porch, jumped out on the run, vaulted up the steps, and had his fist ready to knock when he realized he wasn’t alone. He let his hand drop as he slowly turned, staring down the length of the porch to the small square of light coming through the window from inside.

The porch was empty, yet he knew he was being watched. Drawn by an urge he couldn’t explain, he moved forward, and when he reached the window, stared out into the night, into the curtain of rain.

“Who’s there?” he called, and then for a reason he couldn’t explain, reached out and touched the air in front of him.

No one answered, and he felt only the rain.

Shrugging off the feeling as nothing but nerves, he turned back toward the door, and as he did, glanced through the window. Within seconds, he’d spied Franklin’s body lying on the floor.

“Oh no,” he cried, and ran to the door.

It was locked, but not for long.

Adam kicked the door inward, then ran to his friend.



Sonora’s heart was pounding so hard she thought it would burst. Every breath she took was painful, and she felt like she was going to be sick.

The man who’d come out of the storm onto the porch was unbelievable—like some knight in shining armor she might have conjured up during her teenage years.

His skin was the color of burnished copper. His hair was long, black and plastered to his head and neck from the storm. He was tall and lean, without an ounce of fat on him—a fact made obvious by the wet clothes molded to his body. But it was his face that intrigued her. His nose was hawk-like, his chin stubborn and strong. His lips were full and his eyes were dark and impossible to read.

And he was looking straight at her.

Sonora shivered.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening.

He wasn’t part of the dream.

And it was a dream. It had to be.

When he started toward her, she screamed, or at least she thought she screamed. The sound was going off inside her head like the bells of an alarm, but the man kept coming.

All of a sudden, she fell off the porch. When she came to, she was on her hands and knees on the stairs of the motel.

“Hey, lady! Are you okay? I saw you trip and fall but I was all the way down at the end of the walkway. Couldn’t get here fast enough to do you much good.”

Sonora shuddered, then brushed at the knees of her pants, and dusted off her hands as she looked up at the man standing at the head of the stairs. He was short and stocky with a bald head and a red beard. An odd combination of features for the guy, but he seemed harmless.

“I’m okay,” she said. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I’m fine, but thanks.”

The guy nodded, then took a couple steps backward before turning around and going back down the hall to his room.

Sonora unlocked her door and went inside, hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of the doorknob, and then carefully locked the doors. It took even less time to undress, and moments later, she fell into bed.

The hallucination she’d just had was still in her mind, but she shrugged it off. She couldn’t be bothered with worrying about some stupid daydream with Miguel Garcia still on the loose. With those thoughts in her mind, she fell asleep.




Chapter 4


Sonora crossed the Arizona border into New Mexico just before noon the next day. Traffic was already thicker on I-40, as well as on the access roads. A digital message on a bank near the interstate gave a temperature reading of ninety-eight degrees. With the amount of traffic and exhaust fumes heating up the pavement, Sonora could add another ten degrees of heat to that reading and know she wasn’t off by much.

She’d already made a decision that traveling in the heat of the day in this part of the country wasn’t smart. So she took the next exit off the interstate and found a motel.

Within minutes she had a room on the ground floor. She left the office and rode her bike to the parking place in front of her room. When she dismounted, she realized her hands and legs were shaking. Too much heat and not enough water, but she was about to fix that. She locked up her bike, shouldered her bag, and unlocked the door to her room, gratefully inhaling the artificially cooled air inside as she entered.

She went to the bathroom to wash up and drank a big glass of water while she was there. There was a café on the other side of the parking lot, which she planned to visit, but not in this hot biker leather. When she came out of the bathroom, she took off her pants and vest, tossed her shirt aside as well as her biker boots for some cooler clothes and tennis shoes.

She stretched and then bounced once on the bed, testing it for comfort. She scooted all the way up on the mattress, then stretched out—but only for a minute. She noticed the red LED light on the smoke detector was working and closed her eyes.

When she woke up, it was after ten p.m. She groaned as she rolled over and swung her legs off the bed.

“Oh great, I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

She stood up and went to the window. It was pouring. She probably wouldn’t sleep tonight, but she could eat, and her belly was protesting the fact that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Grabbing a clean T-shirt and jeans from her bag, she dressed quickly and slipped her wallet in a fanny pack before she left.

Despite the rain, the smell of charcoal and cooking meat was heavy in the air. Her mouth watered as she made a dash across the parking lot and into the café.

“Ooh, honey, come in out of that rain,” the hostess said, as Sonora dashed inside. “Are you by yourself?” she added.

Sonora nodded.

The hostess picked up a menu. “This way,” she said, and led the way across the floor to a booth in the back. “This okay?”

“Perfect,” Sonora said, and meant it. Being at the far end of the room with a clear view of the door was a good thing. The fact that she was close to the kitchen didn’t bother her. She wasn’t looking for ambiance, just food.

She ordered iced tea, salad and chicken alfredo, then opened a package of crackers and began nibbling on them while she waited for her food to arrive. Lightning flashed outside, momentarily lighting the parking lot. Lights flickered, then went out. A communal groan of dismay sounded throughout the seating area while cursing could be heard in the kitchen.

Sonora automatically felt for her fanny pack, making sure her wallet was in place. Before she could relax, there was the sound of falling furniture, then a woman’s shrill scream.

“Help! Help! Someone just stole my purse!”

Sonora was on her feet without thinking. She heard running footsteps coming toward her. The way she figured it, the only person running in the dark would be the perp.

She moved instinctively and heard, more than saw, him coming. What she did see was that the shadow coming toward her was well over six feet tall. Using one of her kickboxing moves, she caught the running man belly high. She heard him grunt, then heard him stagger into a table and some chairs. She spun on one foot and came back around with another kick that caught him in the chest and ended up on his chin.

He went down like a felled ox.

Lights flickered, then fully came on as power was restored.

The woman who’d been robbed was still screaming and crying.

The hostess who’d seated Sonora saw the man on the floor, then eyed the tall, dark woman she’d just put in the back of the room and pointed. “Lord have mercy, honey! Did you do that?”

“Call the cops,” Sonora said.

The man on the floor moaned and started to roll over.

Sonora put her foot in the middle of the man’s back and pushed. “Hunh uh,” she warned. “You stay right where you are, buddy, or I’ll snap your spine faster than you can blink.”

“Damn, lady. My belly hurts bad. I think you broke my ribs.” The man moaned.

Soon, the squall of approaching sirens could be heard. The perp moaned again.

The police came in the door, followed by a pair of EMTs.

The hostess waved them over. “Here! He’s here!” she yelled.

Sonora quickly exited the café through the kitchen, looking wistfully at the food as she ran through. The last thing she needed was to call attention to herself, and she’d done that big time by stopping the perp. The police would have wanted to see her name and ID. Having them identify her as DEA was completely opposite to what she was trying to do—which was get lost.

She hunched her shoulders against the rain and walked out into the parking lot. Quickly, she crossed the street to a pizza place on the corner.

“One more time,” she muttered, as she hurried inside.

“Sit anywhere,” a waitress said, as she hurried by with an order. “I’ll be right with you.”

This time, Sonora settled in at a booth near the front door and then leaned her head against the glass as she looked out into the night. She was alternating between sausage or mushroom pizza when another flash of lightning sent her back into the black hole that had become part of her mind.



The older Native American man was sitting at a table with his back to Sonora. She wanted to go around him and see what he was doing, but found herself unable to move.

“Why am I here? What the hell do you want,” she yelled.

Either he didn’t hear her, or he was ignoring her.

The man stood up slowly, then walked away, revealing a small piece of wood and pile of wood curls.

He was carving something, but whatever it was, it was little more than an outline in the wood. Her gaze slid from the wood to the man. He was shaking pills from a bottle into his hand. There was a strange expression on his face as he tossed them down the back of his throat and chased them with water.

He’s dying.

The moment Sonora thought it, she flinched. A deep sadness came over her. “What am I supposed to do?” she cried. “Why are you haunting me?”



“Hey, lady!”

Sonora jerked.

“What?”

“I asked you…what do you want?”

Sonora blinked. Traveling from insanity to the real world was confusing, but she was getting better at it. It didn’t take her but a moment to answer.

“A medium sausage and mushroom pizza and a large Pepsi.”

The waitress nodded and left Sonora on her own again, only this time, Sonora focused her interests on the people at the other tables as she waited for her food to arrive.

She was both frustrated and confused by these recurring hallucinations. Talking to a shrink was a possibility and probably wise, but she wouldn’t risk it. The first time the precinct got wind of an agent in “therapy,” that agent would wind up doing desk duty until pronounced fit for duty again. Sonora didn’t want that on her record, so she was relying on instinct to get her through this. She couldn’t help but feel as if she was seeing this man for a reason. Maybe if he was real, and maybe if she found him, she’d discover for herself what this all meant.

Then the waitress came, delivered the pizza, refilled Sonora’s drink and left her to dine alone. By the time she had finished eating and paid for her meal, the rain had stopped. Reflections from the street lights were mirrored in the puddles as she crossed the street to get to her room.

She was wide-awake and itching to be on the move. Despite an old fear of the dark, she handled it better outside. When she thought about it, which was rarely, it always made sense. She’d gotten her fear of the dark from being locked in a closet, so if she wasn’t bound by four walls, the fear never quite manifested into a full-blown panic attack. Glad to be on the move again, she packed her bag quickly, dropped her room key off at the office, and mounted up. Within the hour, she was gone.



Miguel Garcia had been in Phoenix less than six hours when he’d gotten his first good lead on Sonora Jordan’s whereabouts. He had a name and an address, only it wasn’t Sonora’s address. It belonged to her ex-boyfriend, Buddy Allen.



It was just after 10:00 p.m. when Buddy pulled into the driveway of his apartment building. It was the first time he’d been home since this morning when he’d left for work. With his mind on a shower and bed, he got off the elevator, carrying a six-pack of beer and a bag of groceries. He set down the six-pack, then toed it into his apartment after he opened the door. The door locked as it swung shut. Buddy was halfway across the living room when it dawned on him that all the lights were on, but he distinctly remembered turning them off when he’d left.

The hair rose on the back of his arms. He set down the sack and the six-pack and stepped backward, intent on leaving the apartment to call the police.

Then a man walked out of the bedroom holding a gun. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and motioned for Buddy to sit down on the sofa.

Buddy measured the distance to the door against the gun and cursed silently. The man didn’t look like the kind to be making idle threats.

“Who the hell are you?” Buddy asked.

“My name is of no importance,” he said.

“Then what are you doing here?” Buddy countered.

“Looking for a friend of yours.”

“Who?” Buddy asked.

“Sonora Jordan.”

Buddy’s stomach rolled. Suddenly, it hit him how much danger he was in. Sonora didn’t deal with lightweights and she’d been spooked enough to leave Phoenix. There was every possibility that he might not live to see another day.

“I don’t know where she is,” Buddy said.

The man frowned. “Wrong answer,” he said, and swung the butt of his gun up under Buddy’s chin.

Buddy dropped, then didn’t move.



DEA agent Gerald Mynton was pouring his second cup of coffee of the day when the phone rang. He set down his cup and reached across the desk to answer it. “Mynton.”

“Agent Mynton, I’m Detective Broyles with Phoenix Homicide.”

“Detective, what can I do for you?” Mynton asked.

“I’m not sure, but we’re working a murder and the name of one of your agents came up.”

Mynton frowned. “Who?”

“Sonora Jordan.”

Mynton sat down in his chair with a thump. “What about her?”

“Do you know a man by the name of Robert Allen…goes by the name of Buddy?”

“Not that I—wait! Did you say Buddy Allen?”

“Yes.”

“Oh hell,” Mynton said.

“Then you do know him?” Broyles asked.

“Not personally, but I do know that Agent Jordan used to date a Buddy Allen. Is he the one who’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you say it was murder?”

“Beat all to hell and back,” Broyles said. “Died in E.R. about two hours ago.”

“And you’re looking for Agent Jordan because?”

“Mr. Allen had a message for her. It was the last thing he said before he died. He said to tell her that, ‘he didn’t tell.’ Do you know what that means?”

Mynton felt sick. “Maybe. Do you have any leads?”

Broyles shuffled his notes.

“Uh…here’s what we know so far. Around two in the morning, a neighbor was coming home when she saw a stranger get out of the elevator and leave the building. She said he had blood on the front of his clothes. She got into her apartment and went to bed. But she said she couldn’t sleep because she kept hearing an intermittent thump from the apartment above her. She knew it belonged to Buddy Allen, and said it wasn’t like him to make noise of any kind, so she called the super. He went up and checked…found Mr. Allen in a pool of blood and called an ambulance. When he died, we were called in. After questioning the other occupants of the building, we’re leaning toward the theory that the man the neighbor saw might be our man.”

“Got a name?” Mynton asked.

“No, just a description.”

“Was he Latino?”

There was a long moment of silence, then Broyles spoke, “Yes, and I want to know how you know that.”

“We got word a few days ago that there was a hit out on Agent Jordan.” Mynton sighed. “God…we never thought about warning any of her friends. She’s going to be sick about this.”

“That’s all fine, but I want to know about the Latino.”

“Of course,” Mynton said. “I can’t guarantee that the man who killed Allen is the one who’s after Sonora Jordan, but just in case…you might be looking for a man named Miguel Garcia, or one of his hired goons.”

“We would like to talk to Ms. Jordan.”

“Yeah, so would I, but she’s gone,” Mynton said.

“What do you mean, gone?”

“We knew Garcia was after her. I told her to get lost for a while, but I haven’t heard anything from her since she left.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Uh…three, maybe four days, I’m not sure.”

“Do you have a cell phone number?”

“Yes, but would you allow me to get in contact with her first? She’s going to take the news about Allen hard. She’ll blame herself for his death and she’s already under a load.”

“Yes, all right,” Broyles said. “But as soon as you contact her, please have her call us.”

“Will do,” Mynton said.

He hung up the phone, then flipped through his Rolodex for Sonora’s cell phone number.



By noon, Mynton had left three messages on Sonora’s cell without receiving a call back. He was worried and frustrated by his inability to reach her, but he knew that, if she was okay, she would eventually return his call. It was fifteen minutes to one when he left the office for a lunch meeting.



After riding all night and stopping for a few hours at a motel, it was close to sunset when Sonora mounted the Harley and got back on the road. The setting sun was at her back as she rolled out onto the interstate.

The night promised to be clear. The first star of evening was already out and although the air was swiftly cooling, the heat of the pavement was still a force with which to be reckoned.

The power of the Harley carried Sonora swiftly down the highway. She rode with the confidence of a seasoned biker. Just before the last of the light faded away, Sonora signaled to change lanes, then glanced in the rearview mirror. The last thing she expected to see was the outline of a horse and rider up in the sky, following at her back.

Startled by the sight, the bike swerved slightly. She quickly regained control and then ventured another glance. This time, she saw nothing but a scattering of clouds.

Rattled, she curled her fingers tighter around the handlebars and focused on the road ahead.

It was nothing but clouds in an odd formation—no way had she seen a ghost rider.

No way, indeed.



Miguel Garcia was ticked off. He’d beaten Buddy Allen senseless and still wasn’t any better off than he’d been when he’d walked into the apartment. Either the man didn’t know, or he’d rather die than tell where Sonora Jordan had gone. All he’d gotten from his visit to Allen’s apartment was a photo of Sonora. He’d seen her driver’s license photo, but it did not hold a candle to the one Buddy had in a frame. Miguel stared at the image, eyeing the copper-colored skin and straight black hair. Her eyes were dark and almond shaped, her lips full with a twist that could be read as sensual or sarcastic.

Miguel had to admit that Sonora Jordan was beautiful. But beautiful or not, she’d killed Juanito and helped put Enrique in prison and for that she would pay.

Before he’d left the neighborhood, he’d done a little investigating, spread a little money around, and learned that Buddy Allen used to have a Harley parked near his pickup truck, but that he’d ridden away on it about five days ago and come back in a cab. After that, he’d drawn a blank.

Once he got back to his hotel room, Miguel made a call to Jorge Diaz to see if he had any contacts in Phoenix who could hack into computer systems. Jorge had given him a name. Toke Hopper. It turned out to be a good one.

At Miguel’s instructions, Toke hacked into the Arizona DMV and discovered that the missing Harley actually belonged to Sonora Jordan, not Robert Allen.

Since Miguel had already been to her apartment and seen the amount of accumulating mail dropped through the slot in her door, he was guessing that she’d already been gone for a few days. He’d been puzzled by the fact that her car was still in its parking place, and assumed she’d taken a plane or a bus out of Phoenix.

Just to make sure his guess had been right, he had Toke check the passenger lists of airlines and buses for the past week. To his surprise, Sonora Jordan had not used either to leave the city. The only thing missing besides Sonora, herself, was the Harley. If she left town on it, he had no way of knowing a destination.

He decided to go back to her apartment and look again. Maybe he’d missed something before that would make sense to him now.

He paid off the hacker and drove back to Sonora’s apartment building, then walked in like he owned the place. It was a quarter to eleven in the morning and most of the residents were at work. No one challenged him as he rode the elevator up to her floor and picked the lock on her door as he’d done before.

Once inside, he began going through papers, looking for something—anything—that would give him a clue as to where she’d gone. Thirty minutes later he was no closer to an answer than he had been when he came in, and was ready to give up. He was on his way out of the kitchen when he accidentally dropped his car keys. As he was picking them up, he noticed something on the floor underneath the island. He got down on his hands and knees and pulled it out.

It was nothing but a book. He had a difficult time speaking English and couldn’t read it at all, so he was definitely disappointed. He didn’t get interested until he realized the book wasn’t just a book, it was an atlas—a book of maps.

He was looking for a woman who’d obviously gone on a trip, so he started at the beginning and began turning pages one by one. About six pages in, he came to the page showing the map of the United States and found his first clue.

Someone had taken a highlighter and traced a path north out of Phoenix and into Oklahoma. The yellow line ended near a small town on the interstate called Henryetta.

He didn’t know how old the atlas was, or if the yellow line was from a previous trip, but it was simple enough to check out. Within minutes he was gone.

He made Flagstaff around four o’clock and immediately began flashing her picture around at gas stations and eating establishments. It took a couple of hours before he hit pay-dirt.

He found an employee at a gas station who remembered a pretty woman wearing black leather and riding a Harley. When Miguel showed him Sonora’s picture, he confirmed it was her that he’d seen.

Miguel was congratulating himself on his detective work and thought about driving on through the night, but when he saw the gathering thunderstorms, he changed his mind. He got a room for the night and settled in, satisfied that he was on the right track.



Sonora was still rattled by her latest hallucination as she rode through Amarillo, Texas, but kept going.

She never knew when she crossed the Oklahoma border, but when the sun finally came up, she saw a sign on the side of the road indicating Clinton and Weatherford were only a few miles ahead. She’d never heard of Clinton, but for some reason, she knew Weatherford was in Oklahoma.

Just knowing that she was in the state fueled a sense of urgency she didn’t understand, but she was too weary to go any farther until she’d gotten some food and some sleep.



Adam Two Eagles had watched the sun rise, then fed his cat before making himself sit down and write checks to pay his bills. Some time today he was going to have to go into town and get groceries, but not for a while. The day was too nice to waste and he’d promised some families he’d go visit and make medicine for them.

And so the day passed as Adam made visits and answered a couple of phone calls for help from his cell phone. He worked without thought of what waited for him back home until it was getting late and he had yet to go to town and get his groceries. In a few hours it would be dark. He thought about waiting until tomorrow to go shopping and started to go inside his house, when suddenly, the front door swung shut in front of him.

Startled, he stopped, opened it, then stood on the threshold and waited, expecting to feel a draft from an open window somewhere in the house.

He felt nothing.

The skin crawled on the back of his neck.

He turned and looked toward the horizon.

The sense of imminency was still with him.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I will go to town.”




Chapter 5


A man was in the motel parking lot cursing the flat he’d found on his car as a police siren sounded a few blocks over.

Sonora heard none of it. The air conditioning unit near her bed was a buffer against the heat outside, as well as the noise. She slept deeply and without moving, until she began to dream.



She was surrounded by trees. The wind was rustling the leaves overhead. In the distance, she could hear coyotes. She was lost, and yet she wasn’t afraid. Something flew past her—most likely an owl. They were night-hunters—like her. As soon as she thought that, she frowned. Why had she referred to herself as a night-hunter? That made no sense.

A twig snapped off to her right.

Sonora froze. Something—or someone—was out there.

“Who’s there?” she asked, and then feared the answer.

Another twig snapped. This time from behind her. She wanted to turn around, but as always, she couldn’t move.

“Stop it,” she yelled. “Either speak up or get the hell away from me. This isn’t funny!”

Wind lifted the hair from the back of her neck as she curled her fingers into fists. It took a few moments for it to sink in that the gust of wind was past, but that her hair was still up.

She heard a sigh, then felt something brush the skin above her collar.

“No, no, no,” she moaned. “I want to wake up.”

“Not yet,” someone whispered.

Sonora shuddered.

“Sssh, pretty woman…you are safe.”

“Oh God, oh God, I need this to stop. I’m waking up now. Do you hear me? I’m waking up now!”

She closed her eyes, counted to ten, and then opened them, expecting to be anywhere but in a forest, in the dark, with a stranger at her back.

“Why am I not awake?” she moaned.

“Because we are not done,” he said softly.

“Then show yourself, damn it!”

There was a long moment of silence. Sonora waited—uncertain what would happen first. Either he would disappear, or she would wake up. Then suddenly, her hair was laying against her neck once more, and she thought she heard him whisper something near her ear. She wasn’t sure. It could have been the wind, but she thought she heard him say, “as you wish.”

She closed her eyes.

“Look at me.”

Panic hit her like a blow to the gut. Be careful of what you ask for, she thought.

“Woman. Look. At. Me.”

His voice was firm, but she was no longer afraid.

She took a deep breath and then opened her eyes just as a cloud blew over the moon. In the dark, all she could see were his eyes, looking down at her and glittering like a wolf.

So he was tall.

She felt his breath upon her face, or maybe it was just the wind.

“Do you see me?” he asked.

The wind blew the last of the cloud away from the face of the moon, and he was revealed to her in the moonlight.

It was a stunning face—a face that appeared to have been carved out of rock—all angles and hard planes—except for his mouth. It was full and curved in just a hint of a smile. When he saw that she was looking at his lips, she saw his nostrils flare.

“I see you,” she said.

“Then come to me,” he demanded.



Sonora woke up just as someone fell against the outside door of her motel room. She heard a burst of muffled laughter and then the sounds faded away.

“Oh God, what is happening to me?” she whispered. “Am I going insane?”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and looked for the digital clock. It was either broken or unplugged, because the digital readout was dark. She turned on a light, then glanced around for her watch. She didn’t see it, tried to remember when she’d looked at it last and failed.

“Great,” she muttered, then stumbled to the window. It was still daylight outside.

She glanced back at the bed and then frowned. There was no way she was going back to bed and chance resuming that dream. It was too unsettling. Without giving herself time to rethink the decision, she hurried to the bathroom. The sooner she got cleaned up and dressed, the sooner she could leave.

She didn’t know for sure where she was going, but that hadn’t stopped her yet. If she admitted the truth, she hadn’t been in control of her life since that day in Tijuana when she’d fallen flat on her face and into what she could only describe as a parallel world. From the time she’d left Phoenix, to right now in this strange motel room in a state named for the Native American Indians who peopled it, she had been led by something more powerful than anything she’d ever known before. As confused as she felt, she had come to believe that something—or someone would continue to lead her in the right direction.

As she was dressing, she remembered she’d been going to call her boss. She took the phone off the charger and made the call to the Arizona headquarters of the DEA, but when she was put through to Mynton’s office, he was gone. Frustrated, she left him a message saying that she was okay and she’d call him later.

Within an hour, she was back on the Harley with the sun at her back, trusting in a force she could not see.



Franklin Blue Cat was asleep in his favorite lounge chair on the back porch. The disease he was battling and the medications he was taking to fight it often left his body feeling chilled and old beyond his years. Shaded from the sun, and with the breeze in his face, he reveled in the heat of summer.

Although he was still, his sleep was restless, as if his mind refused to waste what little time he had left. In the middle of a breath, pain plowed through his body, bringing him to an immediate upright position and gasping for air. He struggled against panic, wondering if he would be afraid like this when his last breath had come and gone, then shoved the thought aside.

He believed in a higher power and he believed that when his body quit, his spirit did not. It was enough.

He glanced at his work in progress and then pushed himself up from the chair. For whatever odd reason, he had a compulsion to finish this piece before he was too weak to work.

Once up, he decided to get something to drink before he resumed carving. He was in the kitchen when he heard a commotion outside in the front yard. He hurried onto the porch. At first, he saw nothing, although he still heard the sound. Puzzled, he stepped off the porch, then looked up.

High above the house, an eagle was circling. Every now and then it would let out a cry, and each time it did, it raised goosebumps on Franklin’s arms.

“I see you, brother,” Franklin said.

The eagle seemed to dip his wings, as if to answer, I see you, too.

Franklin shaded his eyes with his hand, watching in disbelief as the eagle flew lower and lower.

Was this it? Was this how it would happen? Brother Eagle would come down and take his spirit back to the heavens?

His heart began to pound. His knees began to shake.

Lower and lower, the eagle flew, still circling—still giving out the occasional, intermittent cry. And each time it cried out, Franklin assured Brother Eagle that he was seen.

Franklin didn’t realize that he’d been holding his breath until the eagle suddenly folded its wings against its body and began to plummet.

Down, down, down, it came, like a meteor falling to earth.

Franklin couldn’t move as the great bird came toward him at unbelievable speed. Just when he thought there was no way they would not collide, the eagle opened his wings, leveled off his flight and sailed straight past Franklin with amazing grace.

Franklin felt the wind from the wings against his face—saw the golden glint of the eagle’s eye—and knew without being told that the Old Ones had sent him a sign.

Staggered by the shock of what had just happened, Franklin took two steps backward, then sat down. The dirt was warm against his palms. A ladybug flew, then lit on the collar of his shirt.

He smelled the earth.

He felt the sun.

He heard the wind.

He saw the eagle fly straight up into the air and disappear.

It was then he knew. A change was coming. He didn’t know how it would be manifested, but he knew that it would be.



Gerald Mynton got back in the office around three in the afternoon. When he heard Sonora’s voice on the answering machine, he groaned. He needed to talk to her and she’d given him no idea whatsoever of where she was or how she could be reached. It was obvious to Mynton that she kept her phone turned off unless she was physically using it, and had to be satisfied with leaving her another message that it was urgent he talk to her. All he could do was hope she called in again soon.



Sonora passed through Oklahoma City in a haze of heat and fumes from the exhausts of passing trucks and cars. Sweat poured from her hair and into her eyes until she could no longer bear the sting. She pulled over to the shoulder of the road long enough to take off her helmet and get a drink. She emptied a bottle of water that had long since lost its chill, then tossed it back into her pack to be discarded later.

There was some wind, but it did nothing to cool her body against the mid-summer heat of Oklahoma. In the distance, she could see storm clouds building on the horizon and guessed that it might rain before morning. Maybe it was just as well that she’d taken to the highway this day. She knew Oklahoma weather had a predilection for tornadoes. Riding tonight would probably not be a good idea.

Reluctantly, she replaced the helmet, swung the Harley back into traffic, and resumed her eastward trek, passing Oklahoma City, then the exit road to Choctaw, and then exits to Harrah and then Shawnee. It dawned on her as she continued her race with the heat, that nearly every other town she passed had some sort of connection with the Native American Indians.

It wasn’t until she came up on Henryetta, once a coal mining town, and now a town claiming rights to being the home of World Champion Cowboys, Troy Aikman and Jim Shoulders, that she felt something go wrong.

She flew past an exit marked Indian Nation Turnpike. Within seconds after passing it, a car came out of nowhere and cut in front of her so quickly that she almost wrecked. It took a few moments for her to get the Harley under control, and when she did, pulled off the highway onto the shoulder of the road.

Her heart was hammering against her chest and she was drenched in sweat inside the leather she was wearing. She sat until she could breathe, without thinking she was going to throw up, and got off the bike.

She took off her helmet, then removed her leather vest. Despite the passing traffic, she removed her shirt, leaving her in nothing but a sports bra. Without paying any attention to the honks she was getting from the passing cars, she put her vest back on. Then she wound her hair back up under her helmet, jammed it on her head and swung her leg over the seat of the bike.

The engine beneath her roared to life, then settled into a throaty rumble as she took off.

Less than a mile down the highway, a deer came bounding out of the trees at the side of the road. Sonora had to swerve to keep from hitting it. This time, when she got the Harley under control, she began to look for a safe place to cross.

She might be hardheaded, but she wasn’t stupid. For whatever reason, she’d gone too far east. She thought of the exit she’d just passed, and the odd feeling that had come over her as she’d read the words.

Indian Nation Turnpike.

For the same reason that had taken her this far east, she felt she was now supposed to go south. She waited until there was a break in the traffic, and rode across the eastbound lanes and into the wide stretch of grass in the center median. She paused there, until she caught an opening in the westbound lanes and accelerated.

It didn’t take her long to find the southbound exit to the Indian Nation Turnpike, and when she took it, it felt right. Pausing at the stop sign at the end of the exit ramp, she took a deep breath and then accelerated.

The moment she did, it felt as if the wheels on the Harley had turned to wings. The wind cooled her body and she felt lighter than air.



Adam loaded the last sack of groceries into the seat of his pickup truck and then slid behind the wheel. As soon as he turned it on, he noticed his fuel gauge registered low. He lived too far up into the mountains to risk running out of gas, so he backed up and drove to the gas station at the end of the street.

As he pumped the gas, a sweat bee zipped past his nose, then took a second run back at his arm. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. As he did, he heard the deep, throaty growl of a motorcycle engine and, out of nothing but curiosity, turned and found himself staring into the simmering fires of a setting sun.

For a moment, he was blinded by the glare, unable to see the rider or the bike. Quickly, he looked away, then shaded his face and looked again.

Breath caught at the back of his throat.

The bike and the rider were silhouetted against the heat and the sun as it paused on the horizon of an ending day. Despite the heat, Adam shivered. Although he knew it was an optical illusion, both rider and bike appeared to be on fire.

He was still staring when the illusion faded and the rider wheeled the bike into the empty space beside Adam’s truck. He heard the pump kick off, signaling that his tank was full, and still he couldn’t bring himself to move.

He didn’t know when he realized that the rider was a woman, but he knew the moment she took off her helmet and turned to face him, that he’d been waiting for her all of his life.

When their gazes connected, she gasped, then staggered backward. If Adam hadn’t reacted so swiftly, she would have fallen over her bike. And the moment he touched her, he flinched as if he’d been burned.

“You came,” he said softly.

Sonora looked down at his fingers that were curled around her bare arms. She could feel him. She could see him. But that had happened before. The test would now be if she could move.

She took a step back. To her surprise, her feet moved. In a panic, she wrenched away from his grasp.





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